There is a Lambo like an extreme spirit.
If I start it, it’ll sound like a symphonic power.
The doors open with superiority
upwards and hopefully higher.
They look like a gate leading into an impasse
but, when they close, they fall like axes on the Ego.

For even here, sitting in it, charmed I’m not.
Gosh, what a drama.
It roars abnormally: O heaven, tremble!
And we, born true-blue mortals,
on our knees for the miracle.

Realism could also be
τhe remotest cloudless day,
so laughable for dark memory,
a slavish memory, ready to praise
the least dose of joy.

And come certain cloudless days
that die out all at once,
forgetfulness seeming to be sufficient.
The rest are like philology.

But what is one to do with lotuses?
We exist. Above all we put up
not only with everything, but also nothing
which more or less falls to our share.

And on we go. But let’s not kid ourselves.
If on the way a whirling weather should occur
open to dangerous dreams
since mythical lotuses don’t come out
let us say the quick prayer
like a Lotus may the soul overtake
expectation, this obsession
to live painlessly.